“Ooooh,” she said. Syreet had a playful look in her eye and his cock in her hand. As she slowly fondled his organ through his pants, the Amazon drew the rest of Sparr’s tiger stripes. When she finished, he was striped from his eyes to his waist. His cock was achingly hard, its outline obvious against his pants. Someone in the crowd gave a cheer.

Syreet leaned close against him, pressing her lips against Sparr’s ear. Her breasts were soft and inviting. “Blood,” she whispered, close and wet against him. “Fuck.”

By the time Sparr reopened his eyes she was gone.


The fight was over in seconds. Sparr, aroused and energized by the unexpected encounter with Syreet, charged toward his opponent. The man fell back frantically, blocking Sparr’s first attack and barely dodging the second. He swung at Sparr, and missed. Before the man could recover his guard Sparr leapt forward again, striking his upper arm. His opponent let out a hiss of pain and tried to spin away. Sparr’s final blow just caught the man’s side, opening up a gash with the metal edge. The horn sounded.

A cheer rose from the crowd, modest at first then swelling. Stunned at his sudden willingness to commit violence, Sparr gazed up at the spectators. Most were cheering or clapping, while a few whistled. The Governor met his eye, nodding. Sparr felt a strange joy. Some combination of relief and lust surged through him. He had triumphed, and now basked in the adulation of the crowd. One word stood out in the ringing cheers, a word which his implant translated as animal.

Sparr was painted like a tiger, dripping with sweat, and holding a bloody club. The word fit.

The festive atmosphere carried into the night. Back at the compound, the gladiators were treated to an unusually rich meal of sausages, game, and fresh bread. Wine appeared. Men to whom he had barely spoken clapped him on the back or raised toasts. Ast, who had won his blood match almost as efficiently as Sparr, drunkenly embraced him, then insisted on downing another cup. Even Jinn, obviously still hurting from his bout, offered a thin smile.

An unfamiliar visitor drew Sparr’s notice. The youth, wearing tight black trousers, a gusseted silk tunic and an emblem on his breast, stood nervously in the corner of the hall. First a guard, then the weapons master spoke to him. The youth produced a piece of parchment which the master reviewed carefully before returning it. He motioned Sparr over.

The weapons master grinned at Sparr. “One night,” he said.

“What? One night what?” Sparr didn’t understand.

“Go him. One night. Her and back.” The master gestured toward the youth. “Go!”

Mystified, Sparr accompanied the youth, who escorted him outside to a pulled rickshaw. He had noticed one or two of the carriages earlier in the day, little more than a chair on wheels, pulled by the liveried driver. Sparr climbed up, and before he could even settle in, found himself flung madly through the streets. The young man was surprisingly fast.

Vonde wasn’t a large town. Tucked as it was at the end of the valley, the flat, readily buildable space was defined on two sides by ridges. The restriction had not, however, prevented the city from expanding vertically. Clinging to the ridges were narrow roads of timber, more like alleyways. The residents had, over the decades, built homes into the fissures and gaps of the ridge wall. Sparr’s runner first took him past a few homes of modest appearance, but well kept. Further up they squeezed past a jumble of huts built atop each other as much as against the ridge. Here the road seemed almost impossibly narrow, a sensation made more harrowing by the advancing night.

The runner stopped, winded. He inclined his head toward a home which stood tall in a narrow fissure. Like the huts, the cottage was constructed from a patchwork of planks, branches, plaster, stone, and what might have been tusks from some enormous creature. Outside, strings of beads, shells, and feathers hung in the wind. The door was opened by pulling on a whip. Sparr hesitated, but the driver motioned him within.

Years ago on Earth, Sparr had visited the Crazy House at an amusement park. Partly aided by technology but relying even more on optical illusion, the attraction tricked the visitor’s senses in several ways. Walls seemed to converge, level surfaces sloped, and nothing was straight. Walking without bumping into a wall was almost impossible.

The cottage he now entered reminded Sparr of the Crazy House. The front wall was flat, but once inside nothing was even. After a tiny vestibule, the floor rose in a series of irregular steps. Some were just broad enough to hold a small chest or wash basin. Others could barely accommodate Sparr’s feet. Equally disorienting, the way twisted to follow the natural curve of the fissure. There was no discerning how far back the structure wound.

The way was lit by candles. Exotic scents of spice mingled with something sweet. Was there honey on Kaybe? Were there bees? Sparr crept forward cautiously, passing a tiny kitchen and a single chair. No corner was left unused.

She was waiting for him on the top step.

Sparr hadn’t thought the gladiator could look any more enticing than she had in the arena, her arms outstretched in victory, prancing athletically for her fans. He was wrong. In the dimness of the cottage, her skin glowing in the candlelight, Syreet was a vision. She was completely naked, arms stretched over her head, legs slightly spread, peering down at him with hungry eyes. At Sparr’s approach Syreet dropped one hand to her neck before sliding it down across her oiled body. From where he stood looking up toward her, it was like watching the statue of a goddess come to life.

Syreet kneaded a high, firm breast before continuing across her flat belly. When her fingers found her slit her eyes fluttered shut. She moaned.

“Blood,” she said. “Fuck.”

Sparr watched, entranced, as Syreet fingered herself. Long, leanly-muscled thighs and calves wriggled and ground together. Syreet buried two fingers in her slit and began to work them, pressing and exploring her damp flesh. Once or twice she opened her eyes just long enough to drink in a view of Sparr, but mostly her lids were shut, her lips parted. Now the oiled gladiator pressed her free hand to a breast, lifting and tugging it. Slowly, the slick flesh escaped her fingers. Syreet repeated the motion, this time pinching her nipple. She did so again, harder.

“Fuuuuuck,” she repeated.

The woman’s performance was astounding, but Sparr ached to join her. He whipped off his shirt, fumbled briefly with the clasp of his trousers, then yanked them free. The next time Syreet opened her eyes she couldn’t miss how ready he was. Nor did she hesitate.

Beckoning Sparr forward with one finger, Syreet edged slowly back. Behind her, he caught a glimpse of the bedroom. In one corner was a rack of weapons, in another, an open chest bursting with clothing, both fine and coarse. The bed itself was little more than a low-slung frame piled with furs. Before he could catch her, Syreet flung herself back onto the bed and parted her legs. The invitation was clear.

Sparr dove forward, gripping the tops of his would-be lover’s thighs. Syreet wriggled playfully against him, the sheen of scented oil on her body making it maddeningly difficult to maintain a sure grip. Only once Sparr circled her thighs with his arms could he do as he wished. He drank in her scent, a foreign combination of the woman’s natural musk and the spice-scented oil. Not waiting, Sparr pressed his tongue against her slit, worked it slightly into her, then licked up.

“Yes,” Syreet gasped.

Tonguing and circling her clit, Sparr coated Syreet’s already damp slit with his saliva. Mostly he focused on her nub, diving down to wriggle his tongue into her opening only periodically. Once she no longer resisted him, he released her enough to slip a finger toward her center. Sparr sucked his finger, then gently wriggled it in. She was dripping.

“Yes, ooooooh, yes yes yes.” Syreet still wriggled against him, but more to regain the attention of his tongue than to escape.

“Yeah,” he grunted back. Sparr twisted his finger against her g-spot, while his tongue explored her clit.

“Unh, ooooh.” Syreet began to tremble.

Sparr flicked his eyes up to gauge the effect he was having. Syreet’s eyes were clenched shut, her mouth agape. Slowly she turned her head to one side. Her fingers curled into Sparr’s hair, urging him to continue. He happily complied. Slipping in a second finger, he added a pumping motion to the attention he was already giving her g-spot. Syreet’s body began to arch up.

“Oh, ohhhh. Oh fuck!”

Just when he was sure she would cum, Syreet sat suddenly upright. She pushed Sparr away, panting. Her hair was in disarray around her, eyes wild with some yet unfulfilled hunger. Syreet rolled away, and with a rough shove, guided Sparr to lie on his back. She eyed his cock.

“Big spear,” she said, eyes wide. Syreet lifted Sparr’s cock for inspection, tracing her fingers from his balls to the tip. She repeated the motion, tickling his balls before caressing the shaft. Sparr’s cock twitched in her hand. Syreet grinned.

She mounted him, vaulting effortlessly to perch herself over his cock. Syreet pressed her slick gash against him, wriggling to align their bodies. Sparr first felt wet pressure, then snugness, then heat. They were one.

Syreet, tentatively at first, began to work herself onto Sparr’s cock. He watched the play of different expressions across her face as anticipation, lust, and pain took turns. She was relentless, not pausing when his cock stretched her, but accepting the pain as she would a blow taken during training. Syreet winced or knitted her brow, but carried on, grinding and sliding again Sparr’s straining cock. At last, with a final gasp of pain, she took the last of his shaft into her depths.

“Fuuuuuuuck,” she moaned. Syreet’s eyes had slit shut while she worked to take him. The gladiator now opened them, smiling triumphantly at the man beneath her. “Mine. My spear.” Her hair was a wild tangle, spilling past her shoulders.

“Yeah,” Sparr grunted. His cock was wrapped in bliss. Syreet’s pussy was dripping wet and delightfully snug. Her hands dug into his chest hair as she continued to grind on him, sometimes pushing her clit against the base of his cock, sometimes raising her hips to pump him athletically. Syreet’s breasts jiggled enticingly. Sparr reached up to fondle one, but to his surprise she knocked his hand aside. When he didn’t try again, Syreet pouted.

What was going on? Earlier, when touching herself, the gladiator had tugged and pinched her own nipple. She obviously savored it, even the pain. Why not enjoy it now? Sparr took a guess.

Again he reached to fondle her. When Syreet attempted to block him, Sparr grabbed her wrist hard. He jerked her toward him, while his free hand clutched at her breast. After struggling briefly, Syreet yielded. Sparr squeezed and pinched her nipple freely as pleasure and surprise danced across his lover’s face. She laughed.

“Oh yes,” she said. “Yes!”

Their bodies slid together. The oil spread from Syreet’s skin to Sparr’s, until every touch was slick and sensual. The furs tickled Sparr’s back and legs. Candle light flickered across Syreet’s taut body as she vigorously pumped Sparr’s cock. She was consuming him.

But Sparr wasn’t interested in laying passively as the warrior woman had her way with him. As easy as it was to be treated like a toy, he yearned to take her on his terms. When Syreet pressed herself against him, Sparr locked an arm across her shoulders and flipped her. In a single moment, he took control, pinning her to the bed and opening her. Sparr delivered a deep thrust.

“Nnnnnh,” Syreet groaned. She struggled to free herself, to re-establish control, but couldn’t match Sparr’s size and strength. As before, once she had tested his resolve, she yielded. Sparr worked into a steady rhythm, slapping his hips against her, driving deeply and eagerly.

The two lovers grappled, twisted, and happily fucked. Sparr bent to nibble, bite, and suck one of Syreet’s nipples, then the other. She cried out, arching her body to him. Neither were interested in a cautious, exploring encounter. Earlier, Syreet had conquered, then savored Sparr’s fat cock. Sparr, driving deep and hard, tore into his lover’s flesh with abandon. They were equally matched.

They neared release. Syreet’s breath grew labored, while Sparr worked up a sheen of perspiration. She trembled against him, a growing tremor that soon would overtake her. Sparr struggled to maintain control, a powerful orgasm building up within him. He grunted and pumped.

“Oh, oh fuck,” he gasped. “I’m gonna blast in that pussy.”

Whatever Syreet said next, Sparr didn’t need his translator for. She was perched on the edge, eyes shut, mouth agape. The exotic beauty’s face was a mask of ecstasy. Her pussy clamped down on his cock as her shudder turned into a convulsion. She was cumming.

“Hahhhhhhhhh,” Syreet cried out, body arching. Her nails dug into Sparr. She wrapped him in long legs. “Ohhhhhhh fuck!.”

“Omigod! Take it,” Sparr gasped. His balls tensed, then released a powerful shot of cum. “Oh, f, fu, fuuuuuuuuuck!” He buried himself to the hilt in Syreet’s dripping pussy as another gusher of cum filled her depths.

“Oooooooh.” Syreet seemed to cum for an eternity, her body reluctant to part with the shuddering wave of pleasure that tore through her. Her pussy tightened, released, then tightened yet again.

Sparr’s hips bucked as he drew out every consuming, selfish, second of ecstasy. Syreet’s welcoming gash was a perfect fit, a hot, snug home for his cock, for every drop of his cum. “Mmmmm,” he groaned, finally slowing. He collapsed.

The two lay together, panting. Sparr watched, entranced, as the last of Syreet’s orgasmic tremor subsided. Languidly, she turned to him. Syreet was smiling softly, the first sign of tenderness he had seen in the woman. She took Sparr’s hand and placed it over her heart. He could feel its sure, strong beat.

“Blood,” she said.

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